


Cartref

by kethni



Category: The Bill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kethni/pseuds/kethni





	Cartref

It is quiet here, and peaceful.

 

The rolling hills are covered with lush, sweet-scented grass that wavers gently in the mild breeze. From his vehicle, parked by the side of the road, a young police officer sits looking down into the valley. The decrepit heater in the ancient car is turned on full blast. He is drinking tea from a thermos and eating warm, home-made scones.

 

He is looking down into the valley; the valley where the village nestles, between the fields and the forest. Looking at the little stone cottages, huddling around the huge, gnarled oak tree on the common.

 

The fields and crops are laid out beneath him like a patchwork quilt.

 

***

 

He drives along the dirt track slowly, stopping every now and then as a stray sheep ambles across the track. They stop sometimes, and stare blankly at him as he waits patiently for them to cross.

 

Up a narrower track towards a ramshackle farm, cows low a welcome to him. A farmhand waves a languid greeting as he parks the car. He wades through a sea of freezing mud clutching a handful of post.

 

The constable is happy to accept the invitation to a mug of strong tea and a bowl of broth.

 

He is always welcomed warmly whether he has post or not. The locals have grown fond of his friendly manner and his erratic, but enthusiastic Welsh. They like to see him around and about the village and the farms. It is reassuring, they say happily, to see their constable trundling along in the police car.

 

Eventually they may even forgive him for being English.

 

The farms are full of the sounds of animals, and rich with their scents. But there is no traffic for miles around, the sun is shining down, and he can hear the river babbling.

 

At night, when he goes outside, he can see the stars beam and shimmer.

 

Yes, it’s quiet here, and peaceful. Far away from London.

 

***

 

It is a long time later when he returns to the village. The tiny station covers more than thirty square miles of farms, isolated homes, and countryside. The constable spends most of his days delivering the post, vegetables and herbs from the station garden, as well as checking on the elderly inhabitants of the most remote areas.

 

He pops his head inside the pub, and exchanges cheerful greetings with the men playing dominos, and with Megan, the landlady.

 

Then he walks over to the Station House. It’s a wonderfully grandiose title for a tiny, partially converted, stone cottage. The actual station is one room, with; a couple of desks, a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet, several bookshelves, and a tiny counter for the public to stand at. There is a telephone, but it is rarely used since telephone calls cost money, and walking into the station is free.

 

There is a cell, only one, and it is normally used for storing solid fuel.

 

The rest of the building consists of a kitchen, a converted bathroom; and in the attic, a bedroom where sleeping is often aided by the quiet rustle of the thatch.

 

The English constable loves living here.

 

He even loves the tiny garden that is now given over to the station sergeant’s collection of vegetables and herbs.

 

***

 

It is just past four o’clock when the constable happily unlocks the front door and wanders inside.

 

There is, as he knew there would be, a brief but affectionate note from the station sergeant. In the note, he explains that he has gone to escort the village children home, and that the constable shouldn’t worry.

 

This duty is not an exaggerated fear for the safety of the eleven children. It is in fact a response to the antics of one Jenny Michaels, age seven. In the previous three months, the sweet and shy Jenny has ‘got lost’ eighteen times while walking the two hundred yards home. On the most recent occasion she was found in a tree, behind the sweet shop, two hours later.

 

The English constable consults the log book and discovers reports from two old friends, Morgan’s Farm and the neighbouring Lewis Farm. Morgan’s Farm has reported a broken fence, while Rhodri Lewis has reported an obscenity spray painted on one of his sheep.

 

A crime wave!

 

The constable removes his heavy winter coat and hangs it on his coat hook. Then he walks to the back door and removes his Wellington boots. He puts them carefully on the mat by the door, and pulls on his standard issue police boots.

 

He stokes up the coal fire a little, and then gets the kitchen stove on. When the wood is crackling merrily, he fills the kettle and puts it on the stove.

 

The sergeant will be back soon, so the constable goes to check the post bag.

 

In a community this small, it is quite normal for people to have several jobs. The school teacher works part time as a barmaid, the publican runs the grocers, and the doctor’s receptionist is also the milkman.

 

The constable sorts the post into boxes for the villagers who will drop by tomorrow, and makes a list of outlying homes he will have to make deliveries to.

 

***

 

In the corner of the kitchen table, away from any prying eyes, the sergeant has carefully placed the constable’s own postal haul.

 

There is another despairing letter from his mother asking; ‘why, oh why, has he buried himself in the depths of the Welsh countryside?’

 

His answer is always the same: because he is happy here; because everything he wants is here; and more than everything else, the man he loves is here.

 

***

 

The water is boiling, and the room is toasty warm, as the sergeant walks in. He is red-cheeked and shivering from the cold. The constable puts out two cups, the only two cups, and goes to say hello.

 

“You look cold,” he says, smiling as he kisses the sergeant.

 

“It’s bitter out,” the Sergeant agrees. “And Mary Evans had no coat, so I had to lend her mine.”

 

“You should give her mum a good shake.” The constable scowls.

 

“I will. Mary could have frozen half to death.”

 

“Never mind Mary! Her mum has another five kids if Mary freezes to death. I’ve only got one sergeant!”

 

Craig and Luke laugh together, happy and close in the warm room. They kiss and cuddle in the tiny stationhouse, buried deep in the Welsh countryside.

 

It’s quiet here, and peaceful. Nothing much ever happens in the tiny village as they go about their lives.

 

Bliss

 

The End

 

 

*Cartref is Welsh for ‘Home’.


End file.
